


the man with the plants (good omens)

by Rona23



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Miracles, OC POV, Secrets, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), cryptid Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-03 04:29:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rona23/pseuds/Rona23
Summary: “You want to what?”, he asked, posture straight yet open. Only for Crowley.“Move out. Get out of London. Somewhere to the country side. If we stay here, our sides may come back for us after all.You wouldn´t want to give up your books, right? Good, then come with me.”, Crowley demanded.





	the man with the plants (good omens)

**Author's Note:**

> so I had this little idea for a while and didn´t know what to do with it. And then I did read the graveyard book (by Neil Gaiman of course) and suddenly the words spilled again and I kinda fell in love with the Linch couple (OC´s) and I couldn´t stop writing from their perspective... so.... 
> 
> Also, it was so much fun to write. (I´m bad at geographics, just if anyone cares about the tags or where the cottage is). Also this is a one shot, so it´s unlikely there will be another chapter, sorry XD

If someone were to say Crowley was soft, well you can probably imagine his reaction better than I could ever describe.   
However, there was nothing in the entire world help him proof otherwise.  
First and foremost, he was extremely fond of a certain angel. His angel. Aziraphale, whom he had known before he fell.   
Sure, as an Archangel he was never allowed to talk to principalities, but that didn´t stop him from looking.   
Wondering. Or dreaming.

Perhaps it wasn´t such a bad thing that he fell. Humanity had given him a reason and allowed him to meet his angel.   
There were many things he liked to dream of doing someday. He had spend the entire 19th century living in a dreamworld, because the real angel had refused to talk to him.  
Didn´t mean Crowley didn´t see his angel during that time.  
In fact, he saw him every day. In his sleep, of course.

He had planned everything. And done many things to pretend it was, somehow, a possibility.  
Of course he knew it wasn´t. Until, of course, after the apocalypse.   
The one, that never happened.

\--------------------

There was something about Crowley´s flat. The apartment, created with so much passion for modern and historic art and terrified plants.  
Not much of this felt important, though.   
It was as much him as anything could ever be. And yet, he felt like something very important was missing.

But now, after everything that happened, after everything that went down with the holy water in here, he felt that maybe this was not entirely true.  
It wasn´t that something was missing.  
Something was amiss. That thing was him. Crowley. Because he didn´t belong here.  
And thus, the demon had decided to leave.

Aziraphale blinked at his words. Multiple times, the outlines on his forehead wrinkling in confusion.  
“You want to what?”, he asked, posture straight yet open. Only for Crowley.

“Move out. Get out of London. Somewhere to the country side. If we stay here, our sides may come back for us after all.   
You wouldn´t want to give up your books, right? Good, then come with me.”, Crowley demanded. Alright, maybe pleaded.

“But where would we go? Are you even sure you want me to come with you? I mean -”, suddenly the angel was acting all frantic, with wide gestures. As he always did when he was flustered.

“I was thinking, Tadfield. I know it´s where everything happened, but that´s why nobody would expect us to go there, right?  
Plus, we could keep an eye on the antichrist. See, how he grows up. I mean, sure, he stopped the apocalypse. But he´s only eleven. His wild teenager phase will come and maybe-”

“Where would we live then?”, Aziraphale asked. And maybe it wasn´t a question at all. Maybe he just wanted Crowley to clarify they would be living together.   
Crowley opened his mouth, but snapped his fingers once and the (demonic) miracle happened.

“Well, maybe my grandfather build a cottage there a few hundred years ago and -”  
“But you don´t have a grandfather.”, Aziraphale interrupted him. 

“I´ve got papers that say otherwise. Alright. Maybe that was just me, anyhow-”

“You miracled something into the past?”, Aziraphale stared at him in shock. Would you blame him? Playing with time was one of the kind of miracles only few angels could ever perform. Rumors say only the Archangels had been given the gift by god herself.  
Many rumors said that was the reason why Raphale disappeared. Went to see the future, they said. God had a plan for him, they said.

“No.”, Crowley quickly denied. “That´s not possible. I just happened to buy an old cottage and get faked papers. Anyway, what do you say? Wanna come with? You and your books of course.”

“Is there even enough room for books?”, Aziraphale hesitated. He had grown quite fond of his little shop. A shop nobody ever bought anything from, but still.

“Oh, plenty. Plenty. It´s a big house. Many shelves. You´d love it.”

Aziraphale turned in his shop one more time, then smiled back at Crowley.   
“Ah, well. I´m sure there are a lot of people who would love to buy this shop anyway. I´ve been offered quite the amounts of money before. Give me one second, my dear.”

Minutes later, they already sat in the Bentley, driving 90 miles per hour through the city, pretending Crowley knew how to drive.  
Miraculously, the books all fit into the car. Just like Crowley´s belongings did as well.  
Not enough space for books in a cottage, sure Aziraphale.

\---------------

Tadfield was a village, that as small as it was, was bound to never change.  
It´s weather was always as perfect as a fairy tale would demand it to be. But you already knew that, didn´t you?  
The village was unusual in a way that everything usual never altered in any imaginable way.

It was sunny, when the celestial pair arrived. The cottage was old and worn, as though it had been here for at least two centuries. But nobody had ever lived there. And there was nothing and no one who had ever looked after it. At least, according to the rumors that spread somewhere between gossip girls and bartenders telling stories of old, nobody but that one man.

A man owns the cottage, they whispered. He comes here once a month. He always brings flowers and plants, who blossom brighter than any plant they had ever seen before. There was a sense of fear in those plants. When the man leaves again, the plants seem confused. When he comes the next time, they seem relieved.

The man always walks into the house, and leaves an hour later. He never stays longer than that.   
Few had ever seen him come or leave. But one man, Mr. Linch saw him every time. He had eyes like a rat. He watched his garden as it was the garden next to this mysterious neighbor and he wondered, why his own plants weren´t as green as his.  
But then again, the grass was always greener on the other side, wasn´t it?  
However, Mr. Linch was an old man. And he was born here and he was certain he would die in the same house he has lived in so long.  
He remembers the first time he had seen the mysterious man. He could not have been older than 6 years at the time. But he remembers the day clearly. He had been a child then, wishing to go out and play in the sunlight.  
But it was a rainy day. Unusual for the time of the year and the man in his vintage car had cursed as his black coat got wet.  
Mr. Linch, who was called Carry Brook then, before he was married and took his wife´s name had watched him through the window of their kitchen door.

As he asked his father about the man, Mr. Brook had only said the man had come there for years now. Ever since he was a child. And he was certain the man´s father had come there as well when he had been a child. Though he wasn´t certain. He only knew this, because that was what his father had also said to him.

Mr. Linch, who had seen this man come for more than thirty years now, almost obsessed by the absurdity that was the man´s never aging features, was always wary when the old, vintage car arrived. It was always too fast, always stopped too abruptly that he had complained to his wife about it more than once.

For some time, Mr. Linch had been certain that the man was immortal. A vampire, a demon perhaps. But he had been a teenager then. And Mary Linch, the neighbor girl from across the street had laughed at him about it.  
Now, as they were happily married, they both bet how long it would take until the man wouldn´t come to the old cottage anymore.

About a year ago, the man had not returned for quite some time. More than a month and his wife had been certain of her victory. So delighted that he feared she might fall out of the wheelchair she was bound to ever since that motorcycle had run her over two years ago.

But today was a sunny day. And today the vintage car drove onto the sidewalk and Mr. Linch imagined that his petunias jumped to the side as to not be run over by it´s wheels.  
A nightingale sang in the tree that had failed to decide which side of the property it wanted to belong to and just stood right between the wooden fence, Mr. Linch had painted white a few days ago.

The man, the mysterious man with the red hair and sunglasses got out of the car first. But he had no plants with him. At least none that Mr. Linch could see.   
“Mary! He´s back!”, he shouted towards the living room, where his beloved wife was reading a children´s book with as much enthusiasm as a child.  
He remembered their teenage years then, when they had made charts with red little dots and tried to connect the stories of local gossip to find out just what kind of cryptic their absent neighbor really was.  
All they new was, that a man named Anthony J. Crowley had bought the place in 1800 and build a house on it. And ever since, the owner´s name had never been changed. 

Mary rolled over and almost fell out the chair as her wheels got stuck on the blanket she wore to keep her legs from freezing.  
She was just in time, eyes wide, even wider through her reading glasses, to see the mysterious man open the door for a passenger.

Mr. Linch looked at her for a moment, shock, but also fascination and childlike excitement running through his veins, reflecting in his twinkling eyes.  
“That´s new.”, he said, whispered, though he knew the two man couldn´t see them.

They got out of the car, went into the house and didn´t return.  
Mr. Linch looked at his wife, both of them giggling in delight. She wasn´t even mad she had lost the bet. The bet was already forgotten, really, as Mr. Linch smiled at her and brought out the chart board he had hidden in his study for years now. Mr. Linch was an author. It was easier that way. So he could be home for his wife and provide for enough money for them to eat and pay rent.  
They never needed more than that.

So they stayed in the kitchen, as Mr. Linch and Mrs. Linch discussed what new information they now had for the mysterious man.   
They did this for an hour, though their conversation slipped with all the new gossip they had heard over the past week, though it had nothing to do with their case. They ate some cookies and drank tea and talked about their daughter that had moved out just a few weeks ago and that she was to return to visit in a few weeks more during school break. As she went to Collage already.

They waited, until it was dark again. But nobody left the house next door. They heard muffled laughter once, they saw the light turn on together with the street lamps as the sun went down. But the car never moved.  
They went to bed late that night. And the next morning, the car was still there.  
It was then, that the pair decided to visit them. So, they baked a cake as a greeting and around 2 in the afternoon, they rang the bell at the old cottage.  
Smiles as wide as ever, as they couldn´t contain their excitement.

\-----------------------------------------

The other man. Dressed in white and cream colors opened the door. “Oh, hello.”, he said cheerfully.   
“How may I help you.”

“Erm, hello. I am Mr. Carry Linch. And this is Mary. We´re married. And we were wondering – we assume you are our new neighbors?”, Mr. Linch said. “We have cake.”, his wife added.  
At that, the man´s eyes twinkled and his smile widened. 

“Ah, yes. Come on in then. Crowley is in the kitchen.”, a little louder, he called “Did you hear that, dear? We have guests.”

Mr. Linch glanced down at his wife, as he helped her inside. The small stair at the door was a hindrance for her wheelchair, but not as big as that of the old market down the street.  
She smiled back at him, squeezing his arm lightly. “they are married!”, she whispered in delight. 

The man who had not introduced himself yet lead them into the kitchen. Mrs and Mrs. Linch gaped as they saw the inside of the house. It was a lot bigger and more modern than they had expected. Never had they seen this place from the inside, and never had any company come here to redecorate the place. Not even the man in black had come with any tools that would have suggested he´d done anything to it.  
There were giant shelves, stuffed to the brim with old dusty books lining the walls and yet, the kitchen and the living room looked positively empty. There were still bookshelves in there, but they were few and hidden by glass doors as though the contains behind were more valuable then the other books around.  
There was even a picture, an old sketch of the Mona Lisa, which could have been the real thing, on one of the walls.   
Everything was silver and black, or wooden and brown. Neither dark nor bright. But familiar and comforting and modern, but not yet lived in.

“Guests? What guests, angel?”, a voice replied from the kitchen. It was as snarky and hissing as Mr. Linch remembered. He had rarely ever heard this voice. Only ever talking to plants, not to anyone else. It was weird and exciting to hear it directed at him.  
“Mr. and Mrs. Linch, our neighbors I believe. They brought cake.”, the white haired man replied. 

The mysterious man, Crowley, as the white haired man had called him earlier, walked in. His steps as slithering and flexible as Mr. Linch remembered.  
“Of course”, Crowley nodded, but he kept his glasses on.

“I´m sorry, Mr. Crowley.”, Mr. Linch started, his heart pounding in his chest, as the man´s eyebrows shot up in confusion.  
“But my wife and I – we. Well, we´ve been wondering who you are, really. I mean, both of you, certainly.”, he glanced at the white haired man at that, apologetic.  
“But you mostly.  
You see, we´ve been living here all our life now. And for more than thirty years, I have seen you walk in and out of this house, only ever bringing flowers and plants and leaving precisely one hour after you arrived again.  
We´ve been wondering, when you would return next, or if and if you´d ever stop or ever stayed. 

And now is the first time you ever stayed longer than that. And you still look so young and -”

“My father owned this house before me. He died ten years ago.”, the man automatically replied, as he obviously avoided looking at his companion/husband. Who, in return, stared at him openly, curiously. 

“Yes, yes. That´s what my father said, too. We´ve checked who this place belongs to and it belongs to a man named Anthony J. Crowley from over two hundred years ago...”

“It´s an old family name. I´m the ninth generation.”, the man answered again. “I believe you must be leaving now.”, the man said, finally and shoved the couple out of the door already.   
Mr. Linch would have complained, if he didn´t just realize he had left the oven on and his wife looked at him with wide, giggling eyes as she did the same.

Two weeks later, Mrs. Linch found herself sleepwalking down town. The doctors called it a miracle. The same day they got a package with tickets for a flight to America, where their daughter was living and decided it was a good time as any, to visit her and tell her about the good news.

\-----------------------

Aziraphale never asked Crowley what the two humans had meant, but he could imagine what Crowley must have done.   
It was obvious anyway, because Aziraphale recognized the plants. Some of them had spots in them. But they didn´t seem as frightened as they used to be in the small flat.  
In fact, the only garden as relaxed and beautiful as this one, had been Eden itself. A garden that had been created by the Archangel Raphael and it had been said that no angel nor demon could ever create anything as beautiful as the archangel had. 

When Aziraphale however, glanced at the garden, glanced at Crowley who was talking to some kid on a bike that drove by minutes before, he thought even Eden could not live up to this.   
He still had questions, of course. But maybe it was best not to ask. There were things better left untold and covered.  
He loved Crowley either way. Maybe one day he would explain, but that was up to him and him alone.


End file.
